When Heaven Falls
by Masque01
Summary: A WW2 Sniper comes to realization of his place in war and realizes the horrilbe truth...


When heaven falls....  
  
My eyes blinked several times as I tried to shrug off the comfortable silence of the dark oblivion of the back of my eyelids. My eye struggled to focus as a figure came in to view. A young German officer, a Captain to my surprise, taking a break from his normal duties to smoke a cigarette away from his barking superiors, strode through the small town square. "Kind of young for a Major" I thought as I brought my rifle close to my chest, drawing the bolt back to load another round, every noise sounding like a thunderclap in the stark silence of devastation. I looked around the dank and dusty room of my seventh story hiding spot and spied a small hole at the base of a wall facing the courtyard jsut big enough and at jsut the right angel. "Perfect." I mumbled to myself as I crept under the windows to stay out of sight. You never know were other German snipers would be lurking, although you clould make some very good guess's at times. Taking off the blanket from my pack, I used it to prop my rifle up as a makeshift bipod so as to aquire the appropriate angle of fire. I adjusted my scope and quietly clicked off the saftey, drawing a bead on my target. "He is young for a Captain, bearly twenty years old." I said to myself in my minds-voice. I began to ponder how such a young man rose so fast through the ranks. I could imagine the faceless figures of his wife-to- be at home and the children he would bear fi he made it home alive. He turned in my direction and I could see his entire face now, the ideal of the "Ayaron" race. Dirty blond hair hung down on the sides of his forehead and his blue eyes were looking down, away from the scope of my Mauser rifle. Upon seeing his face, the faint, minuscule voice of the humanity I had left, the humanity stripped from me in the heat of battle, cried out. It begged me to stay my hand and not pull the trigger. The stern, harsh presence of duty wrenched me back down the road to damnation as the center or my crosshairs found the soldiers forehead. "Sorry kid." escaped form my lips as I prepared for the shot, stopping just at the threshold of the triggers spring. I could almost smell the greasy European cigarette as the officer plucked it from his mouth and flicked to his right, turning to go back to his platoon. "FIRE!" I screamed loudly inside my head as I pulled the last quarter inch of the trigger and let a round fly, striking the turned solider in the back of the neck, killing him instantly. I closed my eyes and listened to the echo of the gunshot roll off the gray, ruins of Essen, Germany. At that instant, the image I had of heaven all my life fell from my mind forever. Solemnly reaching to my pocket, I brought out my Old Timer pocket knife and wiped the blade out, scratching another notch in to my rifle stock. I rolled up my blanket again and quickly stuffed it inside my pack, knowing the Germans would be around soon, investigating were there missing comrade had gone. "That's all we are," I thought "scratches on a colossal game of hit- for-hit, what makes a difference if it was him or me." I pulled my cloak around me, trying to stay warm as I crawled out the door of the room, making my way to the bottom to find another den to settle in to until my next target came wondering along. I followed the stairs (or what remained of them) to the first floor and crept up to the opening to the street, inching my way closer and closer to the opening as I prepared to dart across to the neighboring building. Closing my eyes I counted, "1...2...3!" and I raced across the snowy street, bearly avoiding a patch of ice from a frozen puddle, to the safety of the ruins. I sat inside the I slumped down once inside the doorway and began to cry, not knowing why. I sat and wept for what must have been the good part of an hour in the entryway of the boomed out building. The world as I once saw it was changing for the worse and the only diffrence I could make was to scratch the great beast of war, or maybe if I wa lucky, stick a thorn in it's paw. If his life didn't matter in the long run, what made mine so special. Was I just another bargaining chip in this giant game of poker called war? Struggling to my feet a cept walking, trying to wipe my tears away and staggered on in to the building aiming to find a nice cozy spot to sleep and possibly, eat some rations. After all, how will the dogs of war rest when there is nothing left to fight for?  
  
"One death is a tragedy, a million is mearly a statisic." Joseph 


End file.
